Deranged Souls

by Ron Ripley

  Alex snickered and shook his head. “No. I bet you don’t even have one.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Timmy said, grinning despite the taste of blood in his mouth. “I do have a collection of swear words. You can have all those when I kick it, okay?”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “Sounds good.”

  “Okay, what’s this favor?” Timmy asked, gasping out the last word as pain flared through him.

  “When you die,” Alex said, “I want you to stay.”

  “Say again?” Timmy asked, the shock of the request momentarily driving out the pain.

  “I don’t want you to go. When you die,” Alex repeated. “You know, don’t go to the light. Stay here with me.”

  The idea both fascinated and terrified Timmy.

  “I don’t know if I can do that,” Timmy said after a moment of silence.

  “Oh,” Alex said, looking crestfallen.

  “What I mean by that,” Timmy explained, “is I’m not sure I can make myself be a ghost.”

  “Oh!” Alex said, suddenly grinning. “That’s not a big deal. I can help with that. If you really want to.”

  “Yeah,” Timmy said, not believing the boy could do more than talk to the dead. “I definitely want to. You’re a good kid, Alex. I’d like to see what you get up to around here.”

  “Cool,” Alex said. He leaned back against the couch and asked, “Do you need me to get you anything?”

  “No,” Timmy said, trying to ignore the pain. “Your company is great, kid.”

  Alex grinned at him, and the two of them sat in silence.

  ***

  When Marcus returned home, both Timmy and Alex were asleep. The two looked peaceful, although both were far too pale and thin as far as Marcus was concerned.

  He secured the back door, made certain everything was locked as well as it could be, and then set about making himself a cup of coffee. The caffeine would keep him up well past the time he usually fell asleep, but Marcus felt he needed it.

  When it was ready, he remained in the kitchen, not wishing to wander about his sleeping friends and waken them.

  He wrapped his hands around the mug, enjoyed the warmth seeping through the porcelain, and closed his eyes as the coffee’s aroma wafted around him. Marcus drank slowly, the heat of the liquid spreading throughout his body. By the time he finished, he felt the temperature in the room shift. A glance up showed Elaine, and he felt horror sweep over him.

  Most of the dead woman’s torso was missing, as if someone had taken scissors to a mangled ragdoll. She floated more than she walked, and her face held a dazed expression.

  Marcus set his coffee mug down and asked gently, “Elaine, can you hear me?”

  The ghost passed by him and stopped at the back door. She paused, shivered, then turned around, her eyes widening in shock as she saw him. It took a moment before recognition revealed itself in her eyes, and she smiled worriedly at him.

  “You’re sick,” Marcus said.

  Elaine shook her head, closed her eyes, and looked down, her arms limp at her sides.

  “You’re dying,” he whispered.

  She smiled at him and shook her head again.

  “You’re going away,” Marcus said, forcing a smile, “because you’re already dead.”

  Elaine nodded.

  “Do you know when?” Marcus asked.

  The dead woman shrugged and held up three fingers.

  “Three days?” Marcus asked.

  She held up four fingers.

  “Or four days?”

  Elaine held up one.

  Marcus sagged in his chair. “Or one. You don’t know. Have you told Alex?”

  She smiled broadly at the mention of the boy, but still, she shook her head.

  “Will you?” Marcus asked.

  Elaine nodded and mouthed the word Soon.

  With a final smile, she turned and left the room. In the doorway, she hesitated, looked around her, and vanished.

  Marcus stared into the emptiness of his mug and wondered how much more the boy would lose.

  Chapter 20: Smarter

  The patrol moved cautiously through the snow, their weapons ready and each member of the three-man team acutely aware of the dangers present. They all knew what could happen. They had watched the footage and witnessed the damage firsthand.

  Their formation was tight, a triangular pattern that allowed for maximum fire and support. They were in an open area, moving through the center between the watchtowers and the fencing of the Village. All three men knew of the Natives, just as they knew of the dead woman in the new house. While the Indians were bad, the woman was worse.

  “I’m telling you,” Lance said, “she’s smarter than Armand’s giving her credit for.”

  “Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut,” Mitchell snapped.

  “You shut it,” Lance barked back.

  “Hey,” Grant said, interrupting them, “I’ve had enough from both of you. Mouths shut. Eyes on sectors.”

  The two other members of the team grumbled their assent, and once more silence descended over them. On the right, the protruding section of the fence where the dead woman lived in her small house appeared.

  “Tighten it up,” Grant ordered. Neither Lance nor Mitchell argued as they complied with the command. Tension sprouted between the three of them, all eyes on the house. They kept an even pace, following the well-worn tracks of previous patrols.

  The three of them were parallel to the house when Lance yelled, “Contact!”

  His shotgun roared a moment later, then Grant and Mitchell were firing as well. Indians sprang up out of the snow, screaming and charging, driving them back.

  In the distance, Grant heard the reassuring sound of rifle fire followed by the sudden vanishing of a pair of Indians. But there were more than he could count. Grant tried to lead his men out of the attack, but the dead flanked them on three sides. Row upon row of them, pushing the patrol toward the fence. Grant risked a look at the wrought iron fence. The dead woman was nowhere in sight.

  Hell, they’re going to put us up against the fence and butcher us, Grant thought, anger flaring up. He fired off a pair of shots and heard the horrific sound of the hammer falling on an empty chamber. Grant dropped his hand down for his sidearm, but the crack of a musket sent him sprawling backward. He tripped over Mitchell and fell to the snow. Swearing, Grant tried to stand up, but one of the Natives charged him. Even as the dead man struck his chest, the Indian vanished, but not before the force of his blow sent Grant onto his back again.

  A howl of glee went up from the throats of the dead men, and they charged the patrol.

  Battered and beaten, Grant was driven into the fence along with Mitchell and Lance. Repeatedly, the dead slammed into them. Lance crumbled and collapsed to the ground, a large crack visible in the back of his helmet. Mitchell tried to run but was struck by several Indians at once. The combined blow was powerful enough to launch the man into the air, and Grant was horrified to see Mitchell land on two of the fence’s spikes. They protruded from his chest, and the man let out gasping screams as he desperately tried to free himself.

  Fear attacked Grant with as much ferocity as the dead men, but he did his best to ignore it. He fired his pistol until it was empty, and as he reached for a fresh magazine, the dead men renewed their focused assault on him. His head slammed against the wrought iron fence, and he felt the blow through the helmet seconds before the snap let go and the helmet was knocked off of his head. Grant tried, in vain, to get to his feet.

  Suddenly, he was breathing cold, fresh air, and spitting blood into the white snow. He looked around and saw the dead had backed off. They were silent and staring at him. Grant heard the sound of a voice and realized it came from his helmet, which was several feet away. He squinted and tried to understand what was being said, yet the only word he caught was helmet.

  Yeah, he thought bitterly, sitting back and resting against the fence. I know it’s a damned helmet. Why are they sa
ying it’s a helmet?

  He chuckled and was suddenly aware that his head was spinning. There was no easy way to comprehend his situation. Everything seemed wrong. Lance was on the ground, not moving. Mitchell was on top of the fence, iron spikes protruding from his chest.

  Stupid, Grant thought. Every part of this job is stupid. We ought to just go home and count our losses. Hell, who knows, maybe this idiot professor paid upfront.

  Grant’s thoughts were interrupted as something cold played with the back of his head. He started to turn around, and a woman whispered, “No, don’t.”

  Before Grant could respond, something terribly cold was driven into the base of his skull.

  Chapter 21: Acceptance

  Alex tiptoed past the kitchen. Marcus was sitting with his arms folded on the table, and his head resting upon them. The man snored lightly, the sound making Alex smile. He reached the bathroom and slipped inside, closing the door softly and easing the lock into place. Soft moonlight shined through the narrow window, offering enough light for Alex to see himself in the mirror.

  His hair was completely white and glowed in the moonlight. It made Alex look and feel like a sorcerer. He snickered, moved his head from left to right, and then turned on the faucet. Using his hand, he cupped some water and drank it. The water was hard, the taste of minerals strong in each mouthful.

  With his thirst slaked, Alex turned to the window and looked out over part of the Village. In the moonlit landscape, he saw ghosts wandering about. Occasionally, one would stop and look toward 114 Broad. They knew he was there.

  They know I’m in charge. The thought was comforting to him. They know I am in charge.

  Alex stepped away from the window and examined himself in the mirror once again. He was different, he knew. Thinner and taller than when he had been snatched from his mother’s house. He was smarter and tougher. Flexing his hands, he looked down at his fingers, curling them in slowly until he had made a fist.

  I’m in charge.

  He thought about the chapel, and the ghosts trapped within it. Three deadly people, murderous ghosts who enjoyed hurting others.

  Alex knew he was also in charge of them. Every dead person in the Village would do as he commanded. Even the dead in the chapel.

  Can I do it, though? he wondered. Fear battered him as he paced back and forth. I’m getting stronger. I can feel it. Timmy and Marcus, I need to find out for them. To keep them safe.

  Quietly, Alex left the bathroom and got dressed. The clock on the cobblestone road chimed two in the morning, and in a matter of minutes, Alex was out of the house. He had gone no more than a few steps along the road before Guy was beside him, the dead Frenchman looking at him inquisitively.

  “Where are you going at this hour?” Guy asked in his native French after several moments of silence.

  “To the chapel,” Alex said, replying easily in the same tongue.

  “You’re quite adept at languages now, aren’t you,” Guy said, chuckling. “I have listened to you speak to the Huron, and the others who patrol these grounds. You sound as though you were born to the language, regardless of what it is. Do you know how this is?”

  “No,” Alex said, pausing to pick up snow and form a snowball. He aimed at the clock and let the snow fly. It exploded over the face, and Alex laughed. I’m getting better.

  “Tell me,” Guy said. “Why are you going to the chapel? It is dangerous there, even with the three of them imprisoned as they are.”

  “I know,” Alex said. “I need to talk to them.”

  “Hold, Alex,” Guy said, and Alex stopped. “Why do you risk a conversation with them?”

  “They need to know what to do when I let them out,” Alex answered.

  Guy shook his head. “Did you say you will be letting them out?”

  “Yup,” Alex said. He made another snowball and hurled it as far as he could, which wasn’t nearly as far as he would have liked it to have gone.

  “To what end?” Guy asked, notes of exasperation and concern in his voice. “Did we not suffer when we put them in?”

  “We did,” Alex said, coming to a stop and looking at the dead man. “Worthe has to suffer, too. When I let them go, I’m going to bring their stuff out to the front gate and see how far they can get.”

  “You’ll use them as weapons?” Guy asked, a sly smile appearing on his face.

  “It’s what they are,” Alex replied.

  He grinned at Guy and then continued toward the chapel. They passed the headstones, and the dead Frenchman stopped at the threshold. The salt Marcus had put beneath it was still intact.

  Got to see if they’re still trapped, Alex thought.

  He waved cheerfully to Guy, opened the door, and stepped into the chapel.

  Chapter 22: Acquisitions

  Joyce’s eyes snapped open at the touch of a hand on her shoulder and another lightly over her mouth. In the dim light of the room, she saw Tom, who shook his head and carefully removed his hand. Joyce watched as Tom picked a pistol up off the floor and chambered a round. He nodded to Joyce, and Joyce removed her weapon from beneath her pillow.

  Tom pointed a finger to his ear, and Joyce nodded. She listened and heard a soft creak from the first floor. Movement in the doorway caught her attention. Victor stood there, hair disheveled and clothing rumpled. Ellen was behind him, eyes bright and fully aware. In her hand, she carried a black, collapsible baton, which was fully extended. Ellen eased by Victor and whispered, “At least four. Possibly five.”

  Joyce wanted to ask her how she could possibly know that information, but the answer to that question would need to wait.

  “I’ll go first,” Ellen whispered and turned to lead the way.

  ***

  Benny led two other members of his team toward the stairs. They moved swiftly, their suppressed 9mms at the ready, their night vision goggles allowing them to move swiftly through the darkened house. The power to the structure was intact, previous experience having taught him that the sudden loss of electricity often served as a warning regardless of the hour. According to the reports, the subject was adept at escape and evasion, and Benny had no desire to chase her down again.

  He felt calm and alert as the operation unfolded as planned. His team had arrived in an old Dodge Caravan and had parked in a driveway three houses up. The house, Benny knew, was empty. One of the perks of forming a friendship with a realtor. Benny had led the team up to the house unobserved, and they had gained access easily, affording him the opportunity to leave one man at the front door with another at the back. As Benny had suspected, there were no defenses. Neither the subject nor her civilian friends had posted anyone on guard duty.

  He reached the stairs and came to a stop, listening. The last thing he wanted was to bump into someone using the bathroom in the middle of the night. He didn’t hear anything.

  Placing his left foot gently on the stair, he eased his weight onto it. When there was no squeak or complaint from the wood, Benny cautiously continued up, his men following behind him. Finally, when he reached the last step before the second floor, Benny tightened his grip on his pistol and peeked around the corner.

  Something heavy smashed into his face, shattering his night vision goggles and sending him tumbling back into the man behind him. Benny’s pistol fired twice as he squeezed it. Both rounds pierced his right foot, and he let out a sharp hiss at the sudden pain.

  ***

  Ellen’s attack took Joyce by surprise. There was no yelling, no posturing. The woman struck with her baton and then was down the stairs. The coughs of suppressed weapons spurred Joyce into action. With Tom beside her, they advanced on the stairs. Victor hung back, weaponless, and angry.

  When they reached the steps, they found a trio of bodies, two of whom were trying to get to their feet. Joyce snatched up one of the suppressed weapons, switched it for her pistol and squeezed off two quick shots. Both intruders collapsed, lifeless. The third intruder groaned, and Joyce stomped down on his hand, the snap of bon
es audible. Moving down the stairs, she heard Tom and Victor take hold of the man and drag him down after her.

  By the time she reached the first floor, Ellen had turned the lights on in the house. The woman’s chest was splattered with blood, and the grin on her face was ferocious. There were two more intruders, one at each door. One was dead, his neck angled in a disturbingly wrong direction. The other was unconscious and was halfway between the kitchen and the front door.

  Joyce looked around as Tom and Victor dragged their groaning prisoner to a chair and sat him in it. Blood seeped out of his boot, and he shuddered as they searched him. Victor tore free the Zip-ties hooked to the man’s belt and handed a couple to Tom, who quickly secured the prisoner to the chair. Then, Victor went over to the other man, dragged him back into the kitchen and bound his hands together to the doorknob.

  “Who are they?” Victor asked, looking from Ellen to Joyce.

  “I don’t know,” Joyce answered.

  “Stupid is what they are,” Ellen muttered. She walked to the sink and began to wash the blood off.

  “Alfor is my bet,” Ellen said when she had finished, and at the name of the security company, the prisoner in the chair turned to face her. His eyes were already becoming black, and his nose had been shifted to the right. Blood smeared his face, and he looked as though he was suffering from a concussion. “Evidently not the best of the batch. I heard so much about these guys. Good thing I didn’t take a contract with them. So, is it Alfor, or is it not?”

  “Alfor it is,” he answered, slurring his words. “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” Ellen replied.

  Joyce pulled out a chair, sat down, and looked at the man. “What’s your name?”

  “Pudding tane,” he replied. “Ask me again, and I’ll tell you the same.”

  Joyce smiled and stomped on his injured foot.

  He shrieked and shuddered, his eyes rolling up in his head.

  “Funny,” Joyce said. “I’m glad you have a sense of humor about this.”